


Since The Day You Came Around

by blanchtt



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: They're going on a year together at Madison Avenue, winter bearing down on them once again, before Therese throws herself seriously into study.





	Since The Day You Came Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thereseswan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereseswan/gifts).



> Reposting a few deleted fics. Thanks for convincing me to do so, Chloe.

  


 

 

 

 

 

’53

 

They're going on a year together at Madison Avenue, winter bearing down on them once again, before Therese throws herself seriously into study. 

 

Photography is a passion, a job, and a life. What others had considered a hobby, a throwaway interest, something to do on the side when there was time for it, she had turned into something she was not only paid to do but enjoyed doing on top of it. As many hours that work required of her, she would never grow tired of loading film, focusing, taking pictures, and producing prints, no matter what the subject. Her creative work off the clock had also benefited from the increased time behind the camera.

 

And so, needing something to do at home and with only so many pictures she could take of the view outside of their apartment windows or of Carol before she grew bashful and shied away from the camera, Therese takes to the piano.

 

She works a half-day on Thursday, stops by the market for ingredients for dinner, arrives home and puts the food away, tidies up, and waits in the living room, sitting on the bench and practicing scales. It’s only two and Carol won’t be back until after five, and it is simply so much easier to arrange for the tuner to come now, while she’s out, then to field the questions, the silent realization, the shocked stares of understanding, in what is supposed to be their sanctuary. With Carol away, she can lie more easily. 

 

And although it is not as upsetting, doing so also saves Therese from the supremely embarrassing attempts to put two and two together, attempts that often end with questions about how nice it is that her aunt is letting her stay at her place in the city, and is she currently in school? She and Carol look nothing alike and are not so far apart in age to be mistaken for mother and daughter, but whenever someone pauses and thinks and mistakes her for a relation of Carol’s she wants to sink into the ground in embarrassment. Carol, having only just turned thirty-two, always laughs good-naturedly later, in private, and blames it on Therese’s youthful looks.

 

Therese cocks her head, frowning, as she presses down on a key and considers the note it produces. It’s not badly out of tune, but not perfect, either. Anything is an improvement over the old one from when she had been in school, though. That one had been so warped from time and weather that it had sounded as if it belonged in a speakeasy.

 

There is a knock on the door, surprisingly on time, and Therese rises, goes to the door, and opens it to find an older gentleman waiting.

 

“It’s right this way,” she says, and lets him in, showing him to the living room. 

 

He makes small talk for only a bit before getting to work. It’s a job best done in silence, and so Therese wanders into their bedroom. To let someone else into their home and stay out of their way leaves her with not much to do, and it’s not exactly relaxing to listen to - the repetitive playing of a note, flat, flat, flat, creeping up towards natural until finally it’s just right, and then onto the next. 

 

She muddles through part of a novel, grasping little of it, and nearly jumps up as she realizes that time has passed and silence has finally fallen over the apartment. She emerges from the room, thanks and pays the tuner as he gathers his things, and sees him out the door. 

 

Therese runs into the kitchen, checks the clock before dashing back to the piano. Four-thirty. She’s still got time, and so she can’t help but sit down, bring the bench closer, and rest her fingers on the keys, wrists arched. She plays a scale, smiles at how bright and clear it sounds now, fitting, and plays another. The tuner had taken a while but the piano sounds even better than when she had first played on it. And so when Carol returns home, she’s still sitting at the bench, and looks up guiltily as she enters. 

 

“Dinner,” Therese breathes, remembering. She’d promised to cook, and Carol places her purse on the couch, shrugs off her coat and lays it over the armrest. 

 

“I’ve got it,” Carol replies, reaching up to run a hand through her curls, tousling them just so and winking before heading for the kitchen. “Just keep playing.”

 

Therese taps at a key, chagrined but pleased. “They’re only scales.”

 

“I enjoy them regardless.”

 

“Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it?” she quips, teasing, and from the kitchen comes Carol’s deep, throaty laugh, the clack of the cupboards opening and shutting, the scrape of a pan being laid on the stovetop, and of her rummaging in the icebox.

 

“Damn straight.”

 

And so Therese makes sure the scales, simple though they may be, are worth Carol’s while.

 

 

 

 

’54

 

The windows are open which helps with the heat but not the noise. Therese slips out of the bathroom, ready for bed, and finds Carol already lying on her side, eyes closed somehow despite the noises coming from outside. It’s not a din, but the silence is broken quite often by cars driving by down below, the voices of people strolling past and speaking too loudly, and of the noises of other occupants in other homes with other windows open. How Carol can sleep through it is beyond her.

 

It is one of those nights where, for any number of reasons, they go to bed with only a kiss and turn out the lights. Therese flicks the lightswitch, pads over in the semi-darkness, and slips into bed. She kicks the sheets down to the foot of the it, but despite the summer heat she edges closer to Carol, opens her arms, and lets Carol slide close, settle flush against her and cling to her. 

 

With Carol in her arms she’s in the perfect position to run her hand slowly up and down her back in a soothing motion, fingers slipping against the silky fabric of her negligee. It gets a murmur out of Carol, whose arm around her waist tightens. “Go to sleep,” Carol urges, gently, but doesn’t move away.

 

Therese is certain Carol knows exactly what she does to her. Her body betrays her wondrously - a look from Carol is enough to stop her in her tracks, captivated, in private or in public. A kiss from her will draw a breathless, wanton moan she didn’t know she was capable of producing from her throat. A tentative question or more confident request, the ease between them meaning the latter now overtakes the former, whispered in her ear has her flushed and nearly tripping over herself to fulfill. And Carol’s touch, whether it be to her cheek as she tilts her head up for a kiss or to her wrist as she draws her closer to her or to her breasts as she slips under her shirt and cups her, always finds her thighs parting, hips canting toward the hand that teases her, slick and aching for Carol inside her. 

 

The material of Carol’s negligee rucks under her ministrations, gathers and bunches, and then Therese’s fingers splay against warm skin. At that, she goes still. The pleasure of falling asleep together, entwined with nothing expected of her, close enough for the scent of Carol to wash over her, fills her with a fierce desire to spend the night in easy sleep and wake up with Carol still beside her. 

 

She may have woken her, because Carol sighs, moves, and Therese lets go as she sits up, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “I can’t believe I’ve forgotten. I have something for you.”

 

“Tomorrow,” she offers apologetically, but Carol’s already up. 

 

“No, no, I’ll forget again.”

 

Therese props her head up on her arm, watches Carol walk away slowly, negligee clinging to her in all the right places, and it confirms that summer is truly her favorite season. 

 

From the sound of it Carol spends a moment in the kitchen before she comes back with a large, thin book, holding it out as she siddles up to the bed. Over time Carol has stopped buying her rolls of film as gifts, the item largely supplanted by the stock made available to her at work, and found something else to bring her instead. Therese takes it as Carol holds it out, sees the movement and composer on the front in lovely script and doesn’t have to open it to know it’s sheet music.

 

She’s put in enough time and effort on the piano to be able to pick up a piece and stumble through it. And that was what practice was for, wasn’t it? To struggle through something, to work, to grumble and curse and walk away for days at a time, frustrated, only to be drawn back by the inexplicable and undeniable need to play. And then, after some time, fingers would know exactly where to go, what note to play next, more quickly and more easily than the time before, and the elation would be there, that she was playing. Shaky at first, and with the apprehension of making a mistake and of having to start over, a stilted piece of music without much soul. But after all that, after hours and hours, there was finally a piece of music, recognizable and polished.  

 

Carol sits on the bed and settles next to her, legs curled under herself, and reaches up and runs her hand over the back of her neck. “The young lady who helped me said Chopin was very popular.”

 

Therese couldn’t be more pleased with it. “You’ll spoil me,” she says with a smile. She imagines Carol walking into a music store and searching for something for her, and feels her heart swell with love. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to keep me away from my camera, though?” she asks, setting the book down on her bedside table and leaning in. 

 

“What a vile accusation,” Carol says with mock indignation, smiling broadly before she kisses her. 

 

Carol settles down with the thump of her shoulder hitting the pillow, and Therese follows. “I’ll play it tomorrow,” she promises, and Carol takes her place once again, arms around her waist and her face buried in the crook of her shoulder.

 

 

 

The next day, after she’s returned from work, Carol not yet back, Therese sits on the floor, going through her books. 

 

The beginner books, promising teach-yourself-piano and easy-to-play-scales, have made their way to the bottom of the stack, replaced by etudes and theory and practice books. And now. She holds the book Carol gave her the night before in her hands. It’s only twenty or so pages, but a complete piece by a real composer. It is a bit intimidating. 

 

She stands, sits at the bench, and opens the book to the first page, reaching out to prop it up. It will be difficult to learn, no doubt. But that Carol supports whatever she chooses to do, had looked at her photographs, bought her a better camera, and now sits and listens to her play and buys her music - it never fails to make her feel as if anything is possible, opportunity there for the taking. 

 

She practices until dinner, picks up again after that with Carol smoking on the couch and listening, until it’s too late to keep it up unless she wants complaints from the neighbors, and goes to sleep with the nocturne playing in her head.

 

 

-

 

 

She has only to listen to a piece to start to wonder how to play it, so it’s hardly an inconvenience to take requests. Therese finds that Carol prefers whatever is playing on the radio, asking if she can play her that song they heard at the diner or in the car. It’s music usually easy enough to find a record of, listen to on repeat, figure out, and play to Carol’s delight and her own. But as for herself, she knows enough to have favorites now. She studies classical, dallies in contemporary, but stays always with jazz.

 

Easy Living has long ago been perfected, and Therese struggles through a Gershwin piece for piano. They’ve been out all day, shopping and eating and generally spoiling Rindy who’s over for the weekend, and had finally called it a day around four. The autumn weather had cooperated up until then, when the thick clouds had finally begun to let loose their rain and they had made their way quickly back to the apartment. Now whatever Carol has started an hour ago is simmering in the kitchen, filling the home with the scent of something that has Therese’s stomach start to growl. It’s not the time of year yet to break out the holiday decorations or for Christmas songs to begin playing on the radio, but the warm and cozy sentiment of winter is right around the corner.

 

Carol flits in and out of rooms restlessly, leaving her to practice. When she had picked up the sheet music Therese had been inspired to learn it and play the song to the end. Perhaps she’s tired from the day - now her mind wanders, fingers go still, and she looks up from the music, sitting and taking in the living room.

 

She’s not sure what it is that draws Rindy out of her bedroom and into the living room, where she had withdrawn once they had arrived home to host her own stuffed animal tea party, but Therese catches a glimpse of motion out of the corner of her eye and turns to see Rindy approaching the piano with honest nonchalance. Carol had mentioned having the piano since before Rindy was born - the instrument standing in the middle of the living room holds no mysteries for her. 

 

But it had presumably never been played, or at least not often, because Rindy steps closer, wide-eyed. “Therese?”

 

“Yes?” 

 

From the kitchen comes the clattering of Carol checking on her recipe, and Rindy rocks undecided on her heels before asking politely, “Can you play the Mickey Mouse Club song?”

 

Without her playing it’s all too easy to eavesdrop, and from the hallway comes Carol’s voice. “Rindy, sweet pea, I don’t think Therese knows what that is.”

 

Carol says it with the tone of someone familiar with whatever that is, and she is right although Therese takes a stab at the name and guesses it’s some sort of show if it's got its own music. It is one of those moments that, with the quickness of a flash of lightning, exposes the breadth and depth of the life Carol has lived up until before her and of the vastly different experiences contained therein. She imagines that if Carol knows what it is then she and Rindy must have watched it together at some point, perhaps in pajamas on a lazy Saturday morning with nothing to do.

 

“I don’t,” she admits to Rindy’s incredulous gaze. “But show me next time it’s on, and I’ll see what I can do.”

 

 

 

It takes several weeks before Rindy’s request can be fulfilled. They’ve got a small, rarely-used television in the living room, which Therese has practically forgotten about until early Saturday morning.

 

She wakes to the warmth and scent of Carol, one she wants to nuzzle closer to, to kiss awake, but someone settles next to her in bed, a small finger poking her shoulder intermittently and whispering her name. “Therese.” Silence before her name is spoken again, more urgently, but hesitant. “Therese? Mickey Mouse is on.”

 

Ah. She’d promised to watch it with her. At the realization that Rindy is waiting for her, all amorous thoughts fly out of her head. Though it is terribly early for them for a weekend, Therese drags herself from sleep, helped by Rindy bouncing on the bed next to her. She sits up, reaches up to run a hand through her hair and push her bangs from her eyes. “I’ll be right there,” she promises around a yawn. She spares a glance besides her and sees that Carol still sleeps like a brick, turned away from her. “Will you go turn it on for me?”

 

It gets a nod from Rindy as she clambers off the bed and darts into the living room. Therese gets out of bed, heads to the kitchen and makes herself coffee before slipping into the living room. Rindy sits on the floor, already watching some commercial about cookies starring a singing family, and so Therese follows, sitting on the carpet next to her with her legs crossed, coffee in hand. She almost spills it out of surprise and the unexpected motion, though, as Rindy gives her only a moment to get settled before clambering into her lap, settles back against her, and nearly clips her chin. 

 

Her foot will surely fall asleep within minutes with the added weight, but Therese can’t bring herself to move. As the show starts she lets Rindy explain everything to her, about the blue and red teams and who’s who and the names of the cartoon mice, although she’s certain she won’t remember it by the end of the day. The theme song has long gone by, but they watch through the end of the show.

 

When it finally ends Therese helps Rindy up out of her lap before she gets up off the floor. They leave the television chattering away, and she sits on the piano bench, Rindy next to her, as she considers the notes. “Let’s see.” The theme song is practically a jingle, nothing complicated. “Does it go something like… This?” She reaches out, finds the right note and thinks, fingers brushing the key, before playing the next.

 

“Yes!” Rindy says, looking up at her as she feels her way to the next few notes. “How did you do that?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Therese deflects out of instinct, though pleased. There’s a flat note here or there, but she slowly pieces together something that is recognizable enough for Rindy to be duly floored. As she pauses she hears their bedroom door creak open, and if she strains can hear the sound of Carol padding down the hallway. “But how about I teach you after breakfast?” she asks, and watches as Carol appears in the doorway, leans against it with a still-sleepy smile, robe pulled tight around herself.

 

“Can we have waffles?” Rindy asks suddenly, looking to her mother. 

 

“Only if you help me stir the batter,” Carol bargains, and Therese nearly laughs at the speed at which Rindy abandons the piano. 

 

 

-

 

 

For what Carol pays for the apartment - Therese had been forced to realize she simply did not make enough to contribute to the rent yet - their neighbors keep quiet and to themselves. There’s a family with a little dog down the hall somewhere who they see the most, because of the need to walk the dog. Other than that, immediately next-door to the right seems to be a businessman and his wife, no children yet. And to the left Therese learns is a woman and her daughter, and probably a husband somewhere though he’s yet to make an appearance.

 

She makes a late night run to the market for food for the week, having spent the whole day with Dannie working on a side project and Carol having been occupied with whatever Abby had roped her into. Therese comes back, arms laden, and fishes for the keys in her purse, standing in front of her doorway. 

 

The elevator dings suddenly, having just returned from the bottom floor to pick someone else up, and she drops her keys, sighing and setting down some of the bags to pick them up as a woman steps off the elevator, walking past her. 

 

The sound of her heels tap away at the floor, but not far. Therese scoops the keys up off the ground, unlocks the door, and pockets them before reaching for the bags she’s set down, unaware of the woman lingering at the door to the left. 

 

“Excuse me,” Therese hears, and looks up as she opens the door to find their neighbor addressing her. With their work hours not quite matching up, she and Carol have managed to be discreet in their comings and goings, and they hardly linger in the common areas or hallways of the apartment. And there is always the reassurance that as little as she knows about the neighbors, they can only possibly know the same amount about them. It’s a worry of a different kind as the woman leans in, asking, “Are you the apartment with the piano?”

 

“Yes,” Therese admits. Have they heard her somehow? How will she go about dampening the sound? She grasps the handle of the bags tighter, worried. “Has it been too loud? I’m terribly sorry.”

 

The woman smiles, shaking her head. “No, on the contrary. I enjoy it. You’ve quite good.” Therese breathes a sigh of relief, and the woman adds, “And it motivates my daughter to practice, too. Clarinet.”

 

“Oh,” she says, relief moving quickly to embarrassment. She’s hardly an idol to emulate. “Well, I hardly knew anything two years ago. I’m sure she’ll be very good soon.”

 

With her part spoken the woman unlocks her door and they say their goodbyes, and Therese finally lets herself into the house, walks straight to the kitchen and places the bags on the counters, happy to have the heavy things off her hands.

 

The weight of it only hits her later after dinner as she stands to walk to the piano, like a shock. “Carol,” she breathes, stopped in her tracks near the doorway. “Carol, they can hear me.”

 

Carol looks up from the drink she’s mixing, an eyebrow arched in amusement. “The neightbors.” At Therese’s nod, she smiles. “You didn’t know?”

 

“You did?” Why had she never mentioned it?

 

Carol shrugs loosely, turning back to her drink. “It’s not very loud, but sometimes when I’m coming home and opening the front door I can tell you’re playing. I suppose someone next-door might hear it, too.” With her back turned to her, Carol takes her silence as apprehension. “You’re fine, darling. She wanted to hear more, didn’t she?”

 

“Yes, you’re right.”

 

Apart from Rindy’s unabashed awe, few compliments ruffle her. Therese has learned to take pride in her work and all that it took to get there. Gone are the days when she had brushed off compliments with excuses. But Carol’s kind words always manage to disarm her completely. To have someone so committed to seeing and _making_ her happy, with nothing else asked in return, still takes getting used to.

 

Only later, gasping for breath and trying to control her trembling, does she feel herself blush. Carol works her way from between her legs back up her body with lips and teeth, leaving a mark here and a light scratch there, and finally kisses her lovingly, deeply, enough so that she can taste herself. 

 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at your growing audience.” Carol nips at her jaw, and Therese  _feels_ what the words do to her, to her heart and body, thoughts eager staccatos of _again-keep-going-please_ as hands seek purposefully and Carol very nearly purrs, “Apparently I’m not the only one who can’t get enough of you.” 

 

 

 

 

‘55

 

 

The party has long since drawn to a close. The guests have left, and their little group has been pared down further, Phil and Carol having left citing the lateness of the hour. But tomorrow is Sunday and perfect for sleeping in, and Genevieve has offered them her couch. 

 

Therese puts down her beer on the coffee table and looks over her shoulder, eyes the piano as Genevieve and Dannie argue over the best and nearest burger joint still open. She wonders what her repertoire would sound like, in here and on another instrument, and gets up, sits on the bench and opens the fallboard. She lays her hands on the ivories, runs a hand up the keys in a glissando and likes what she hears. 

 

And just a little bit tipsy, she begins to hammer away, one piece coming to mind. 

 

Dannie is the first to grit his teeth and make a face, complaining loudly, “Christ, Belivet, what is that?”

 

She had thought it was good, for such an odd piece. Then again, his expertise is in movies and writing, not music. Genevieve gets up, nods, leans against the closed piano top, and leans in conspiratorially, though she sways. She’s probably had the most out of them all.

 

“He would’t know Liszt if he rose up from the dead and kissed him.”

 

“Charming,” Dannie calls out.

 

“Do you play?” She can’t recall Genevieve ever mentioning owning a piano, let alone playing. Is it really so in fashion to have one laying around without learning it?

 

“Just enough to get by,” Genevieve says nonchalantly. “I thought I’d learn to sing, and that’s come in handy.” She shakes her head morosely. “I’m the complete package. You missed your chance, Therese.”

 

From his place still sitting on the floor Dannie laughs. “Don’t get her started.”

 

Therese rolls her eyes. “On what - pining or singing?”

 

"Both."

 

“Too late!” Genevieve announces, and to her and Dannie’s shock begins to climb onto the piano. 

 

“Don’t lie on the piano,” Dannie chastises, clearly the least inebriated of them all, but Genevieve ignores him. 

 

Therese laughs as Genevieve lies on her side. The pose accentuates the curve of her waist, and she crosses a leg demurely, rests her left hand on her waist and with her right pretends to take a drag at a cigarette, and in a smokey, exaggerated voice, says, “And now, the lovely Genevieve Cantrell will be singing Black Coffee, accompanied by Therese Belivet on piano.” After a beat, Genevieve looks at her, and says, “Take it away, beautiful.”

 

Therese shakes her head and plays the first few measures, Dannie cutting in before Genevieve begins to sing. “I can’t believe you used to spend entire parties behind that camera of yours,” he remarks, but he’s smiling and Genevieve is singing off-key now and the neighbors haven’t yet started to bang on the walls, and so she keeps playing.

 

 

-

 

 

Therese holds the metronome in her hands, slides the weight on the pendulum down to the tempo she needs, and props it on the ledge next to the sheet of music in front of her, the thing ticking away. It is a challenging pace for her ability but she’s been working on the piece for months now. She has it down, but playing at a lively speed is still an issue.

 

Carol had come home, found her at the piano, paused in the doorway and watched her with an intense focus for only a moment, and gone straight to their room. She had not made any motion to extend an invitation to join her, and Therese had surmised that she needed some time alone for one reason or another. 

 

She runs through the piece once more, tries to add a bit more speed but stops as Carol fairly stalks into the room. Such agitated gestures are rarely good news. ”Do you need me to stop?" Therese asks uncertainly. Perhaps what Carol needs tonight is peace and quiet, and won't get that with her practicing. Or is it something worse? Rindy?

 

Carol looks up at her, almost stricken. "No, of course not." She reaches for the coffee table, but she'd gotten rid of her cigarettes the week before, flirting with the idea of quitting, and frowns. Clearly she's got something on her mind. 

 

"Are you alright?" If she doesn't want to talk about it that's alright, but Therese can't help but try. "What is it?"

 

She looks to be at a loss to explain, and Carol shakes her head, waves a hand at the piano in a gesture that Therese takes to mean she should continue. With a last worried look at Carol, she forces herself to look down, to find the measure she had last read from. 

 

But she loses her place again, fingers going still, as Carol’s hands rest on her shoulders, as she feels Carol lean down over her, press a kiss to her temple. Carol does not move away, and when she speaks it’s close to her ear, the brush of lips against her. But reluctant to interrupt her as always, she asks, almost an apology, “What I wanted to ask was… Well… Are you terribly busy?”

 

There is a sudden pull of want low in her stomach, as commanding as a syncopated beat. Very few times has Carol ever interrupted her, and only for something of the utmost importance. Her time spent playing was as untouchable as Carol’s drink, a time to think in silence most often and absorb or forget the day, depending on if it had been a good one or a bad one. Therese sits back, leaning into her touch. Regrettably, gone is the soreness between her thighs that she had felt that morning, a lovely, all-too-fleeting memento of the night before. Perhaps Carol feels that, too, and had dared to ask her outright to remedy that. “No, not terribly,” Therese finally replies, rising, and follows Carol. There are better uses to be putting her hands to.

 

She reaches out to take Carol’s hand as she walks away, watches as Carol stops and looks back over her shoulder, smiling, and with a squeeze to her fingers and a tug bids her to follow. 

 

They meet as soon as they enter the bedroom, the door half-shut behind them purely out of routine. Therese isn’t sure who does it, her or Carol, because she only sees Carol turn, senses her slipping from her grasp, and that has to be remedied because Therese wants nothing more than to feel Carol against her, to have her hands wonderfully occupied tracing each and every of her curves, and momentum has her stepping forward. 

 

Hands settle on Carol’s hips for only a moment, sliding around to the small of her back and pulling her closer. Carol obliges, Therese with her proximity forced to tilt up to meet her eyes, and there is a smile for her, messy, as they kiss, and Therese reaches up to tease open the first button of her dress. 

 

It's no secret what Carol does to her. But that Carol should feel the same for her, that Carol would grow slick under her touch and arch into her and gasp so prettily, just as she does for Carol - Therese could hardly imagine she’d be so lucky, that she would be the sole cause of these motions, except there was Carol under her hands, warm and real, the trace of perfume and underneath that the scent of her. Button after button comes undone with ease, and she can’t imagine that there was ever a time that she fumbled, overeager and nervous all at once but never afraid, on something so simple. Undone, the fabric still hangs on Carol’s shoulders, and Therese reaches up, urges the fabric down and off her arms to gather undone at her waist, and then as she breaks their kiss watches as Carol, sleepy-eyed, tugs, draws the dress down over her hips and lets it pool without a care on the floor at her feet. 

 

It amazes her still that even now, after countless days and nights together, after however many times that they’ve done this, that she can still excite Carol. Not for lack of confidence, but in delight. Therese traces the edge of Carol’s bra, fingers teasing the swell of her breast just above the fabric, and then dips her head, placing a kiss to the fair skin. It is all too easy here of all place, she knows, to leave a mark, and knows too that it teases Carol terribly for her to tread lightly, refusing to do so. 

 

But a hand runs up the nape of her neck, tangles in the short hair and, hesitantly, pulls her closer, asking without words. So Therese opens her mouth, kiss sloppy and rough, and laves with her tongue before she sucks hard, hearing Carol gasp. Even if she’s as gentle as possible the color of it will be a dark red, stark against her. With one hand Therese reaches up, hooks fingers over the cup of Carol’s bra and tugs it down, breaks away from the mark she’s already begun to leave and takes her nipple into her mouth. With her other hand she reaches blindly, finds the hooks of Carol’s bra and maneuvers it carefully, between thumb and forefinger, until the hooks come free. 

 

Therese lets go, is pleased to leave Carol’s nipple peaked and slick, and then there are hands cupping her jaw, tilting her up, and kisses against her brow, her cheek, her lips, and a flurry of hands as they both move to rid Carol of the offending fabric, and it soon joins the dress on the floor. “The bed,” Carol says breathlessly, against her cheek, and Therese nods.

 

The quickness at which a small gesture could turn to something else, for Carol and for herself, makes Therese’s head spin at times. She could hand Carol a mug over breakfast, feel their fingers brush, and only a minute later find herself straddling Carol at the kitchen table of her own volition, or find that something as simple as undressing for bed before the vanity could entice Carol so and find her with hands on her waist, Carol up against her back and pressing little kisses to her neck just under her ear. 

 

With Carol on her back on the bed it is much easier to rid her of her remaining clothing - what little there is. Therese slides hands palms-down up stockinged thighs, watching. She could spend hours drinking in the sight of Carol and still find herself wanting more, always more. Her fingertips reach the top of stockings, and she moves onto the clasps - first the ones that she can see. Careful of the delicate silk Therese undoes the clasps first on the left and then the right, acutely aware that she is taking her time, enjoying the sight very much, but that Carol is being left wanting. Therese reaches around, under her thighs, and grasps the curve of her ass before sliding down, undoes the last two clasps, and the stockings and then the garter and panties come off with the help of Carol, Carol’s hand over hers as she draws both over her hips, down her thighs - once off she doesn’t spare them a second glance, letting them drop somewhere to the floor with all the other clothing. 

 

Each time they touch sparks something new and different, unique. The varying press of nails on her back, the amount of bite to a kiss, the type of sound she can pull from Carol or that Carol can pull from her, all tell Therese that one night Carol would like to take her time and lavish kisses on her body before pleasuring her, or that another night Carol is in the mood to relinquish the direction she usually takes and let her set the pace. Therese had felt blind and deaf to what touch could tell her, before Carol. 

 

There is awe and wonder in her at Carol laid out before her, so divine that Therese hesitates before sinking down between Carol’s legs. She angles under Carol’s thighs, lets them rest on her shoulders and trails her hands up, resting them on Carol’s stomach, taut as she arches her back. In the low light of the single bedside lamp still on Therese know she won’t see the slim, shiny marks, similar to her own yet not, on Carol the irrefutable proof of nine months of love. But she knows they’re there and and lets the tip of her index finger trail blindly, imagines tracing them again tomorrow morning with her tongue, in the sunlight. 

 

Without further ado Therese bows her head - the first lave through her folds gets her a taste of Carol, already wet for her, and she stops, licks her lips and savors the flavor of her, rich and full, as it gets a strangled cry out of Carol, as the hips before her tilt up. “Therese, _please_ ,” Carol hisses desperately, and she’s aware of the barest tug under her elbow, of the sheet moving - she can’t see it but with nothing to hold on to Carol must be clutching at it, the sheet twisted between her fingers. “Don’t tease.”

 

Therese would never dream of it, not when Carol needs her so. She bows her head again, and focuses with strokes of her tongue that she knows Carol likes on the most intimate part of her, and she hears Carol’s breathing change, fast and sharp and shallow. Carol is not difficult to please and Therese has no interest in drawing it out. She’s in the business of satisfying her, not withholding. Therese stumbles in her rhythm only momentarily, to slide one hand down and between her thighs, to slip one finger and then at a whimper from Carol a second into luxurious heat.

 

Therese could stay where she is all night, drinking in the sound and taste of Carol, but eventually Carol’s stomach under her hand that remains splayed against her trembles, her gasps cut off, and with one last sharp, shuddering breath goes limp under her touch. 

 

Knowing that too much too soon can spoil a moment Therese makes her way over to her side of the bed, lies down on their cool, clean sheets with a hand pillowing her head, and licks the last of Carol off her lips as she watches Carol’s chest slowly stop heaving, watches her open her eyes and blink back what might be tears. 

 

In the silence and stillness that falls over them, it takes a minute for Carol to turn to look at her, and then for her eyes to flick over her with an indulgent smile - Therese has forgotten that she’s still completely dressed, an oversight that needs to be corrected as soon as possible. 

 

“What are you thinking?”

 

That old question, so long ago become useless, and that now between them has taken on a different tone - _what would you like?_

 

“I’m thinking,” Therese begins before pausing. There are many things she’d like, first and foremost that as soon was Carol catches her breath she’d like to make love to her again, and again, until only exhaustion bids them to stop. Tonight she would stop Carol’s hands from roaming her body, would forgo that in favor of showering attention on her. She says finally, plainly, “I’m thinking I should play more Chopin, if this is how it’ll end each time.”

 

It takes only a moment to sink in, and Carol laughs, reaches out for her and kisses her before she begins to undo the buttons of her shirt; and Therese knows that out of all the sounds she can coax from Carol that that is the one she is most eager to be the cause of and the happiest to hear.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
